


Things Hoped For and Things Unseen

by victorine



Series: Hannibal Anthologies [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (just a little), Flashbacks, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Inspired by Dante's Inferno, Lust, M/M, Mind Palace, Ravage - Freeform, Ravage Anthology, So much talking, Talking, Vore, Will Graham is a sassy little shit, Will Graham/Molly Graham (mentioned) - Freeform, but three years is a long time to wait, do you two ever shut up?, is that an ortolan in your chest?, minor character death (kind of), ortolans bone-saws and bait... oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: Locked in the BSHCI, Hannibal lives in his mind palace. Some rooms he spends more time in than others. One room in particular. In that room, he serves ortolans and tries to remould history into a more pleasing shape.Will Graham has something to say about that.Or: Abandoment requires expectation. Years into his prison sentence, Hannibal is beginning to wonder if he expected too much and sinks into his mind palace in hopes of finding an anchor. He finds Will Graham instead.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Hannibal Anthologies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786330
Comments: 33
Kudos: 149
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	Things Hoped For and Things Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the amazing Ravage fanthology produced by LoveCrimeBooks, the second such incredible volume their team has produced. Thanks to all involved for the opportunity to be part of this wonderful project!
> 
> I was part of the Lust circle, which pushed me far beyond my comfort zone and into territory that was both intimidating and amazing to play in. I hope you all enjoy reading the results (and if you have a copy of Ravage, you can find this on page 95).
> 
> Thanks to everybody who supported me while this was being written, especially TigerPrawn, SnazzyCookies, TC_Book and Pragnificent, who all pulled beta duty, and the members of the Sounding Board, who listened to me whine about it endlessly. Love to you all ❤❤❤

Will’s eyes are closed. Beneath, there is movement, flickers and jerks that cause his lashes to flutter, moth-like against his infraorbital margins. Hannibal imagines running his finger along them, imagines their delicate lines folding back like the sensitive leaves of a _mimosa pudica_ as Will opens up to meet his gaze.

Touching, though, is not permitted in this game of theirs.

It would not do to get distracted, in any case. Having swallowed his mouthful, Will’s thoughts must now be carefully directed further along the path Hannibal is so devotedly tending for him. He is so close, now, and yet still he drags his feet, liable at any moment to change direction and snatch himself from Hannibal’s grasp.

Outside, the storm is blowing itself out. Will could leave at any moment, unimpeded by inclemency. Hannibal must hold his attention.

“After my first ortolan, I was euphoric,” he begins, a reminder that Will has no need to fear rejection or failure of understanding, here. “A stimulating reminder of our power over life and death.”

Will’s eyes are downcast, and for a moment Hannibal wonders if he will dissemble, turn the conversation to theory and philosophy, to the distant and impersonal, where he thinks he will be safe.

“I was euphoric when I killed Freddie Lounds.”

But, of course, Will shows his mettle, wielding bluntness like he would a bullet. If he must deal with this, he will cut through Hannibal’s subtleties and lay himself bare between them. Perhaps, even, he is too proud of his first independent kill to speak of it in veiled terms. The thought burns a streak of joy through to Hannibal’s core.

“Tell me,” he says, delight concealed beneath measured interest, “did your heart race when you murdered her?”

Will takes his time to answer, considering before speaking the words in a molasses drawl that slides _(flows, oozes)_ tantalisingly from him. “No, it didn't.”

Oh, how Hannibal hopes that is true.

“A low heart rate is a true indicator of one's capacity for violence. Your design is evolving. Your choices affect the physical structures of your brain.”

“Killing is changing the way I think.” A note of… what, resignation there? Will is still not quite ripened, even now, clinging to the idea that he has failed the imago of palatable morality in his mind. Now, perhaps, is the time for some sweetness to soothe that bitter trace.

Hannibal speaks of Will’s radiance, of how his sacrifices are made worthy as fuel for his light. And Will takes it in, with the shade of a smile on his face even as he turns his eyes, again, from Hannibal. Always and ever turning away.

“Perhaps killing is changing the way I feel, too.” His tone is thoughtful, wry, but the resignation has mellowed and faded. Will longs for change; Hannibal knows this, but Will does not normally allow himself to see it. Could he, in this moment, acknowledge his desire? Could he act on it? Hannibal feels anticipation caress his spine at the possibility.

“Thoughts and emotions are inextricable, intertwined,” Hannibal offers, the pause between them having drawn out far enough. “Strange if one did not affect the other.”

“Are you affected, Doctor?” Will looks up from under his lashes as he speaks, and Hannibal notes the dilation of his pupils, too large even in the firelight haze that surrounds them.

It is too obvious. That Will is blunt is a fact Hannibal has long since accepted, but this is not that. This is… easy, and Will is never that. Perhaps Hannibal should be insulted, or suspicious, but it just so happens that Will’s intentions dovetail neatly with Hannibal’s own for this evening and so he is happy to allow Will a reasonable amount of rope. For whatever purpose he sees fit to use it.

“Very,” is his simple response.

One of them must reach out first. One of them must round the table but Hannibal is neither aware of it happening nor which of them it is. It hardly matters, when Will’s mouth is on his, demanding reciprocation _(escalation, satisfaction)_.

When Will is tearing at his clothes, determined and deft-fingered.

When Will is allowing Hannibal to place his hands beneath his thighs and heft him onto the tabletop.

When Will is drawing Hannibal down with him, towards the rising planes of his flesh, the sweet slant _(slash, gouge)_ of his mouth.

“This isn’t how it went, of course.”

Hannibal raises his head, incensed by the distraction. Will is stained with red, his desire surging skin deep, his mouth singing with desperation, and Hannibal is in no mood for this particular intruder’s opinions on the subject.

“Kindly remove your feet from my table, and yourself from this room.” Hannibal delivers these words in a snarl, directed towards the figure lounging disrespectfully at the head of his table.

“You complain about my perfectly respectable, completely covered feet but have no issue with _his_ naked backside? Setting some dangerous double standards there, Doctor.”

As if to prove the point, Will paws at Hannibal, trying to drag his attention back to slick skin and parted lips. Such divine temptation.

“Go ahead, see to your boy. I always enjoy watching your delusions.” The figure places his hands behind his head and leans back in the chair, presenting the long column of his throat even as Will does the same beneath Hannibal.

“Desist.” Hannibal’s command is clipped, cold, irrefutable. So of course the figure smirks, and this time it is Will who mirrors the expression. Hannibal stares down at him, lingering in the fantasy a moment longer. Then he waves a hand and Will dissipates into mist.

“Well, that was less messy than gutting me again, I guess.”

The other Will – for, of course, it is only Will who could so easily storm the ramparts of his mind – cocks an eyebrow in Hannibal’s direction. It is insufferable that even his own representation of Will refuses to behave, and Hannibal suspects his subconscious of sabotage.

He removes himself from the table, clothing himself in the process, and takes the seat next to Will, resisting the temptation to sweep his legs to the floor.

“Is there a particular purpose to your visit? Clearly you are not here for dinner, given your state of dress.”

Will, amused, spares a look down at his ill-fitting khakis and soft grey sweater. “I don’t know, seems like you might prefer me undressed, Doctor.” He grins at Hannibal’s displeased glance.

“If your purpose is simply to goad me into admitting a weakness of the flesh, I would think catching me _in flagrante delicto_ with an infinitely less irritating version of yourself would be victory enough.”

“You’re a real grouch when you’ve got blue balls, you know? Don’t worry, Doctor, I’m just a bored shade of your mind who found something interesting in this great big brain box.”

“Do, please, enlighten me.”

“This is a favourite of yours, right? This room, this dinner. A well-thumbed page in your mental diary. But, normally, you stick to the script. You’ve let _this_ version play out maybe…” Will makes a show of counting on his fingers, “three times since it happened. Two of which were directly after I left your house. And then, this week, you’ve fucked me into a puddle on your beautifully polished wood every night. Like a cat in heat. What gives, Casanova?”

Hannibal does not give Will the satisfaction of appearing fazed by this observation. He unfurls a small, polite smile and says, “There are few enough pleasures in prison. I have simply relaxed my internal grip a little in order to compensate.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, not buying it. You waited years without so much as a sniff of me – well, except that one time,” Will pauses here to throw a smirk towards Hannibal, “but a few months of prison and you suddenly decide to indulge, for no particular reason?”

“I am, perhaps contrary to belief, human, Will.”

Will moves at this, sudden and decisive, a serpent striking its quiet prey. He swings his legs down and leans forward, across the table, half out of his seat, to grab Hannibal’s hands. “Don’t I just know it?” he purrs, stroking a thumb across his knuckles. The reminder of the night Will came to Hannibal’s table with his offering of Randall Tier’s broken body is clear, and Hannibal cannot stem his smile.

“You seem preoccupied by our past tonight, dear Will.”

“Pot, kettle,” he responds easily, a shrug drawing one shoulder up and down in a lazy parabola. His face turns thoughtful and he says, “Understanding is only possible in the past tense, isn’t it?”

“Reconstruct the scene and, if the reconstruction is sound, the truth must by necessity be concealed within. It needs only time and patience to uncover it. Both of which I have an abundance of.”

“Several lifetimes of abundance.” Will nods. “It’s a nice theory, paid my bills for a few years there, but total bullshit. All reconstructions are flawed, all memories are subjective. And,” he adds, nodding towards the end of the table, “subject to manipulation.”

“You believe there is no value to be gleaned from my passing the time in this manner?”

Will waggles his eyebrows in a most distracting manner. “Well, not _no_ value – we certainly seemed to be getting _something_ out of it.” The eyebrows drop, drawing together enquiringly. “When did it start, do you remember?”

“I believe you said something about a week, earlier.”

Will snorts. “Oh no, Doctor, this started long before your little mental workouts. When did you start wanting me, is what I’d like to know.”

Hannibal’s smile has teeth this time, a look which unfailingly terrifies those it does not charm. Will only rolls his eyes. Amused, Hannibal casts a glance downward in order to straighten the minutely crooked seam of his pants, pretending to be considering the question, and only relents when he hears a huff of frustration as Will drops back into his seat and crosses his arms.

“My apologies, Will, it is a question that deserves proper contemplation.”

“You’re so full of it, Doctor. I’m a figment of your damn imagination, I already know what your answer is.”

“Then why ask the question?”

“Maybe I just like watching you talk,” Will retorts, the curve of his lips drawing Hannibal’s gaze despite himself.

“You didn’t always,” Hannibal says, soft and questing, a thread of vulnerability carefully loosened just for Will.

“Didn’t I?” Will ducks his head, and for a moment they are back in Hannibal’s kitchen, a chasm opening between them, its blood-rimmed maw dark and ravenous and yet not powerful enough to sever their connection. Somehow. Hannibal still does not understand it, but he is grateful all the same.

“Not as I recall,” he says, easing the words into the air as gently as he once did the knife into Will’s belly. “I believe you wanted nothing more than to punch the words from my lips on our first meeting.”

Will’s head is still dipped but Hannibal can see the blaze of his smirk and feels a shiver of pride for making him smile. Even this facsimile is worth winning over, he decides, as Will raises first his eyes and then his head to take on Hannibal anew.

“I sensed a threat in the room. Correctly, you have to admit,” he adds, and Hannibal acknowledges the truth of it with a nod. “Tipped my flight or fight response, even then. Only reason I _didn’t_ punch you is because Jack would’ve probably stuck me in the BSHCI right then and there.”

“I very much wanted to pursue you when you left, all overheated machismo and wounded pride. Uncle Jack sadly prevented such a course of action.”

“Mmm. Quite the cock-blocker, that Jack. And what would you have done with me, had you caught me? Eaten me all up, greedy, like the spider for the fly?”

“I believe I might have. Your appeal was quite obvious to me from the moment we met.”

Will scoffs, then takes note of Hannibal’s sincere expression and breaks into laughter, the rough-hewn edges of it catching against Hannibal’s skin _(like burrs, like insect stings)_ and slicing him open.

“You don’t believe me,” he states, a flat reaction to defend against Will’s sharpness.

Tears are streaming down Will’s cheeks and it takes him several minutes to choke off his mirth enough to reply. When he does, it is with the lingering remnants of amusement ringing in his tone. “No, Doctor. No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I cannot remember a time when I did not desire you, Will.”

This sobers Will up considerably, and the sky seems to drain from his eyes leaving only clouds when he looks at Hannibal. “What did I tell you about memories?” He sighs. “But if that’s how you perceive it now, don’t let me dissuade you. Maybe your version is better.”

Hannibal lifts his chin. “I do not come to this place to soothe myself with lies, Will.”

“And what about them?” Will asks, gesturing to the bottom of the table. Hannibal follows his gaze to find that both he and Will have rematerialised, writhing naked and unashamed together. He watches as Will shoves him gracelessly to his back against the polished surface and straddles him, taking two fingers and-

“That is not a lie. It is merely a reality we did not experience.”

Will’s smile is his old one, wry and pained and stretched, as if wrenched from him without consent. He murmurs something under his breath, perhaps meant only for himself, except he is Hannibal and Hannibal is him and his words are in both their mouths. “It has to end every way it can. It has to end well and it has to end badly. Everything that can happen, happens.”

It sounds like a prayer, rising and pulling taut between them, not for any god’s attention but their own. Hannibal gazes up to the rafters, thinking of church roofs and the ease of catastrophe. When he looks back, Will – _his_ Will – is gone.

As is the room he had been sitting in, the chair beneath him, and the entwined couple at the end of the table.

In their place is a room Hannibal has thought of often but never revisited.

It is, in many ways, similar to the dining room he had been in only moments ago. It is dimly lit, though not with flickering tongues of firelight but overcast with gloom, grey and heavy, sucking the light from the space. Within is a long table, set for dinner, an elaborate centrepiece drawing the eye. And around the table sit two figures, with a third standing as if ready to serve. Or perform. Or both.

Outside, the world is void, the storm suspended.

Hannibal looks around Sogliato’s dining room just as his double touches his saw to the curve of a drugged and blanked-out Will’s forehead. For a moment, he dissociates badly, unsure which of him holds the buzzing, bloodied blade, and attempts to snatch it away from Will’s fragile, precious skull, before returning to himself and his helpless, empty hands.

His own Will, for his part, seems entirely undisturbed by the sight of his skull being opened, strolling around the table and peering intently at the incision Hannibal is making. “I wasn’t really conscious enough to realise how annoying that was,” Will says, nodding towards Jack, who is wailing his disapproval of proceedings from his seat at the opposite end of the table. “Could you, you know…”

Hannibal gives him a blank look and Will rolls his eyes.

“…dispense with him?” he finishes.

Hannibal feels the vibrations of the bone saw still pulsing in the tips of his fingers and welcomes the opportunity to disperse them. He nods courteously and strolls over to Jack, whose bellowing is indeed a little over the top now Hannibal is not actively courting theatricality. From behind, he snaps Jack’s neck and lets his head drop to the table – somewhat more perfunctory than Hannibal would prefer for Jack’s death but, after all, this one doesn’t count.

“I was thinking you could just whoosh him out of existence but I guess that works too,” Will says, casually unimpressed.

Hannibal flexes his hands and smiles, satisfied. “Be grateful I didn’t conjure your dogs to aid in his disposal.”

Will hums in acquiescence and props himself against the wall, fixing Hannibal with a look.

“You don’t like this room so much.”

“It is not a memory I take much pleasure in.”

“No?” Will taps a finger against his chin, apparently in thought, though Hannibal strongly suspects it is merely mockery. Just as he is beginning to lose his patience, Will looks up brightly. “Perhaps this is more to your liking,” he says, gesturing towards the table, no longer empty but cradling the length of another Will’s naked body. Another Hannibal, fully clothed, straddles him, sleeves shoved messily back, a rip in the seam of his sweater. And beneath him, the red raw crater of Will’s chest, skin folded back like the points of a just-bloomed flower to reveal its slick, secret insides. Blood drips from Hannibal’s chin, his fingers, the loosened tips of his hair.

Slow, so very slow, this Hannibal descends into the viscera of this Will’s core, lowering his smiling mouth to kiss messily against the obscene pulse of vital parts. He licks along a particularly provocative bundle of veins and Will moans his pleasure. He writhes and bucks beneath Hannibal, eyes lit with unquestioning acquiescence, visibly aroused by his predicament.

“Or maybe, just maybe, in your secret heart,” Will flutters his eyelashes obnoxiously, “what you’d really like… is this.”

No flash, or sparkle of magic punctuates his words. It is simply that one moment Will is the one being devoured, and the next he is the devourer, with Hannibal pinned below, panting and desperate to be consumed.

“Stop.” Hannibal’s voice is rough as he makes the plea.

“Don’t stop.” Hannibal’s voice is ecstatic as he sings _(screams, sighs)_ his pleasure.

Will, unfazed or uncaring, continues blithely. “Of course that’s the problem with lust: it’s destructive, it consumes until nothing is left. A little like cannibalism, that way.”

“Will. I asked you to stop.” Hannibal feels abruptly as if he cannot breathe.

“What for?” Will tilts his head, bird-like. “Is this room really so different from the last? The elements are the same: a performance, a dear enemy, an exotic, endangered creature for dinner.”

“Elements can be arranged _(aligned, composed)_ in myriad forms _(patterns, designs)_ , with infinite outcomes. All valid but not all pleasing.”

“This isn’t pleasing to you?”

“This is…” Hannibal sucks in a breath, forces the next word out on it. “Low. Desperate. Shameful.”

If there is pity in this incarnation of Will, he hides it well, beneath cold disinterest and amusement. “I wasn’t aware shame was an emotion you acknowledged.”

“It is certainly one you do.” The words snap out of Hannibal’s mouth, whip-sharp and accusing.

Will narrows his eyes. Not hurt, but curious. “What are you trying to uncover, Hannibal? What are you searching for in your reconstructions?”

It is becoming harder to speak. Hannibal feels lightheaded, stripped bare, exposed nerves and flayed filaments. Is he the one being held down and ravaged?

He makes himself speak. “An anchor. A handhold in the storm.”

“Do you think you can find that here?” Will is relentless, Hannibal is unmade.

“It is the only option left to me.”

Will looks at him for a long time after he says that. Weighing. Measuring. Placing Hannibal on the scales of his judgement once again. “I thought you would last longer than this. In fact, I was relying on it.”

Hannibal shudders and scoffs, “To have faith, one must believe without proof. I am as disappointed as you to find myself unequal to the task.”

Somewhere in the room, somewhere that seems far away, a version of Will is whispering of love as he consumes Hannibal whole. Hannibal does not know the words, how can he believe them?

Somewhere in the room, somewhere far closer than seems possible, a version of Will is cupping Hannibal’s face in his palm. Hannibal recognises the touch, how can he trust it?

One Will says, “Part of me will always want to.” _(I decided when I heard his voice.)_

And one Will says, “They say if you love something, you should set it free. But dear Will has never conformed to expectations, has he? He set himself free, and put you exactly where he would know to find you.”

Hannibal can only stare, sick with the hope Will is pouring into him.

“Did you really believe it was all a show?” Will asks, acid in his disappointment. “Did you really believe this was _your_ design?” He rolls his eyes and steps in even closer to Hannibal, poking a finger into his chest to punctuate his point. “Use your _reason_ , Doctor Lecter.”

Will is still speaking, but Hannibal cannot hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. There is pain in his chest just where Will poked it, so vibrant and arresting that Hannibal’s attention is stolen from Will, down to his heart and the pounding, insistent source of his agony. Beneath the layers of his suit, he can make out movement, a pulsing, beating disturbance, as if his heart is in fact trying to force its way out of his chest.

Disturbed, he glances back up at Will, to find that he has been abandoned for the third time. Will has left him, without a word or a glance, and the pain of that has a keener edge than the still-growing affliction in his chest. That, in contrast, is almost a relief, and Hannibal rips his clothing aside so that he might focus on the fluttering _(pulsating, throbbing, shifting)_ flesh there, rather than on the never-ending loss of Will Graham.

With horrified fascination, Hannibal watches as a point forms in the skin above his heart, tiny but sharp. For a long moment, his skin stretches around it, made pale almost to the point of translucence, and Hannibal has to grit his teeth against the pin-sharp burn before his flesh finally gives against the pressure in an agony of relief. From the ragged hole that appears, a shape emerges, squirming and shoving its way through the void in Hannibal’s form as if he is giving horrible birth to it, with all the attendant pain and viscera. Finally, with one last twisting movement, it is free and now Hannibal can see what it is, as it flaps its gore-soaked wings and soars a little way in front of him.

An ortolan, wreathed in the red raw gloss of Hannibal’s heart.

It turns, and Hannibal knows now, as he sees its eyes shifting from blue to grey to green, that he has not been forsaken yet.

He reaches a hand across the chasm, and the bird hovers a little closer. And though the dark is already closing in around him, for even Hannibal cannot live without his heart, he remains in the light long enough to see the moment the bird flutters, floats, and then settles on his outstretched palm.

* * *

In the white space of his cell, behind the glass that lets the world believe itself safe from him, Hannibal opens his eyes.

And breathes.

And smiles.

Outside, beyond the bars and the gates and the walls of his prison, the storm catches and picks up speed.

* * *

Will wakes. Not with the juddering panic of years before but a deep breath and a smooth transition into consciousness. He glances to his side and is grateful that Molly hasn’t stirred, still curled into her pillow on the other side of the bed. The dream is already fading and he spends a little while staring at the ceiling, trying to tie down the last remnants of it before they fly away.

Then he slides carefully from his bed, spares a glance for his sleeping wife, and leaves the room. He won’t sleep any more tonight. Instead, he stops by one of the bookshelves in his office, and selects a very particular book, before making his way to the kitchen and settling in one of the seats.

He always feels closer to him in the kitchen.

He allows the book to fall open and it naturally settles on a clearly well-thumbed page. Will looks down at the slip of newspaper tucked within and lets his finger run slowly along its edge.

Upon it are two pictures, a split layout of the same man. On one side, he is dashing and refined, resplendent in a tux amongst the crowd of opera-goers. On the other, he is haughty and amused, handcuffs around his wrists as he is taken from court.

Hannibal is beautiful in both, Will thinks.

He lifts the paper, wanting to draw his monster close to him. As he does, he notices something attached to his arm, in the fine skin just below the inner fold of his elbow. At first he thinks it’s a leaf, maybe picked up from the log pile by the fire. On closer inspection, though, he sees it’s a feather, tawny brown and tipped with white. It sets a bell to chiming, deep in his mind, a sense of familiarity he can’t pinpoint. He goes to brush it from his skin, but it won’t budge. He tries again, and realises with a jolt that it is attached to him, its quill embedded within his flesh.

Heart pounding a little, the urge to get rid of this alien thing rushes up in him and he tugs at it mercilessly, teeth set against the pain, until it finally comes free, with a welling of blood and a faint noise from deep in Will’s throat.

He stares at it, pain receding from his mind as he tries to understand its source. Dream-slow, he raises the feather towards his face, and as he does, he catches its scent. Blood, candle flame, and Armagnac. And he remembers.

_Bones and all._

Will doesn’t return to bed that night. Instead, he goes to his study, sets up his kit, and, as the blood sets deep and everlasting into the feather’s blade, starts on a new lure.

He knows exactly for whom he will name it.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love, comments are life and I'll adore you forever for leaving some ❤ (I take a while to reply but I always, always do). Come find me on twitter (@victorine_bee) or tumblr (@victorineb) for more Hannigram-related squealing!


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